


i know how miserable drinking alone is

by wherehefoundtheporcupine



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: After Fugue, Alcohol, And A Good Night's Sleep, Cute, First Aid, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Morse keeps forgetting he got stabbed like yesterday, injured morse, morse needs a hug, peter jakes is pure, s1e2 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 22:12:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18455636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wherehefoundtheporcupine/pseuds/wherehefoundtheporcupine
Summary: When Morse enters the pub, he intends to drink until he is forcibly removed from the establishment. However, Peter Jakes seems keen on ruining his plans, and his idea of emotional support isn't quite what Morse expected.





	i know how miserable drinking alone is

After what he had been through, it was no surprise to anyone that Morse ended up in the pub for the remainder of the day. He had no memory of making that decision, but it seemed that his legs took control and walked him across town before his mind had the power to change their course. Not that it would have done anyway, because if he needed anything in the world it was a drink, and he didn’t feel up to dealing with the icy silence of home just yet.

When he entered the half-empty establishment (it was almost five, after all, hardly their busiest hour even on a good day) the barmaid was scrubbing at the worktop like there was nothing else in the world that deserved her attention but, despite this, she took what probably started as a brief glance at Morse, but evolved into a confused deliberation when she took in his dishevelled appearance. Were he in the mood to care, he may have felt flustered at the scrutiny, but he was well aware that he looked an absolute mess. His eyes were wide, shell-shocked, utterly blank, he had spent most nights over the past week hunched over his desk and woken up with his notepad bleeding ink onto his face. The state of his hair didn’t even bear thinking about (it didn’t on a good day, in fairness).

Noting but not reacting to the shift in the barmaid’s demeanour as she realised that she had been spotted (if anything, she overcompensated, exuding warmth that she had no doubt forgone for the day’s previous customers) Morse ordered a beer. It would not be enough, not by a long way, but he knew that tonight would be a long one, and he would need to be painfully drunk to even have a hope of sleeping.

What he needed most of all was for his mind, for once in his damned life, to stop. He needed not to be thinking tonight, he needed to let himself be engulfed by the taste of cheap bear, the smell of stale smoke and the buzz of chatter from a group of rowdy patrons across the room.

What he most definitely did not need was for measured footsteps to approach him and a slender figure sit down on the stool beside him. At first, Morse started, stupidly expecting to see the face of Mason Gull appear at his side, intrusive thoughts forcing their way up from the depths. His fears were soon replaced with something else, however. Peter Jakes was close enough to the bottom of his likely-to-turn-up-and-buy-me-a-drink list that his arrival left Morse confused and as close to speechless as he ever really got.

“Wotcha.” There was a hint of a smile, a glimmer, for a fraction of a second. It caught Morse very much off guard.

“Jakes?”

Jakes took a long drag from his cigarette (was there any time that man did not have one at his lips?) before plucking it out and stubbing it into a nearby ashtray. His fingers were slender and nimble, his movements calculated. If Morse smoked, he would without a doubt have set fire to something or burnt himself on numerous occasions. “I’d of thought you would be able to recognise me by now, unless you’re much drunker than I thought.”

“Shut up.” It was not something that Morse said often, but, when he did, it was generally directed towards his colleague. “And it’s ‘would have’.”

“What?”

“Would _have_ thought. You said, ‘would of’.”

“Not all of us are walking dictionaries.”

“I’m not sure that metaphor works in the way you think it does.”

Morse could have sworn he heard a growl, at the very least a huff of annoyance. “Well if you stopped being a prick for once in your life, you’d know why I’m here, God knows I don’t want to be.”

It came out harsh, bitter, not unusual by Jakes’ standards, but uncalled for nonetheless, given the circumstances. Morse glared with the limited willpower he had left.

“Thursday said you’d be here. Wanted me to check in.”

“He could have come himself.”

“Surprisingly enough, he wanted to go back home to his family. You know, having been almost killed.” Jakes snarled, taking a swig of beer before continuing in a much more measured tone, “he was rather more shaken up by it all than he’ll ever let on to you.”

They fell silent for a lot longer than Morse was comfortable with, given how effectively their conversation had quashed the voices inside his head. Jakes bought them another two rounds before he dared to speak again, his voice more amicable than Morse remembered it ever having been when directed at him. “Who’s Joycie, a girl?” Jakes gestured at a scrawled note on Morse’s palm, which read _call Joycie 10am._

“Of course she’s a girl.”

“You know what I bloody mean, are you seeing her?”

“She’s my half-sister,” Morse snapped.

“As if I’d know that,” Jakes huffed in reply, “anyways, you got any your eye on anybody at the moment?”

“Why do you care, you jealous?”

Jakes gave him a funny look. “Course not.”

“Sure.”

After this, Morse ducked his head which Jakes, being who he was, took as an invitation to pry. “So that’s a yes? Who is it, anyone I’d know?”

“I haven’t. Been after anyone, that is.” Morse could quite easily have made a bitter retort back at his colleague, he felt the reply dancing on his tongue, but something had caused him to bite it back in favour of something more reasonable.

Jakes leaned towards him slightly, smoke lingering in his breath. “Well that’s your problem then, fix yourself up with a nice bird for a couple days and you’ll feel right as rain.”

Morse’s previous determination to be civil evaporated at that point, anger seething at the back of his throat. His stomach lurched at Jakes’ proximity. “That’s how you think it works, is it? I just run off for a quick shag and forget about all the people who died because I wasn’t quick enough?”

Jakes bit his lip, visibly holding back what he would have said had Morse not faced down a serial killer not two hours previously. Instead, he flagged down the barmaid for another round, and leant in towards Morse for a second time. “That’s not what I meant… and it wasn’t your fault,” he murmured, but somehow Morse struggled to pick up the sincerity of his words with the other man’s breath hot on his ear. “That man, Gull, he was toying with you, dangling people just beyond your reach. This is what he wanted: for you to break.”

“Thursday could have died.”

“But he didn’t.” Hearing so much compassion in Jakes’ voice felt surreal. “He’s alive because you’re a damned genius, and you’re insane enough to climb onto a roof to save him. I couldn’t of done it, haven’t got the brain or the balls.” The last sentence was an afterthought, and Morse was so oddly touched by it that he let the grammatical error slide. Just this once.

Faces flickered rapidly around his mind. Their eyes, their blood, their stench. But, somehow, Jakes’ presence made them more tolerable. Took the edge off.

“Look, can I walk you home?” Jakes requested, out of the blue, “Only I don’t fancy pissing away my life savings on warm beer and I’d rather not have to carry you home.”

Morse clenched his teeth, shuddering at the thought of being left alone again just when he was beginning to let his guard down. “I don’t… I’d rather stay,” Morse fumbled for words, “I’m not sure being alone is a good idea for me at the moment.” Why he was being so open with Jakes was beyond him, but he was so terrified of returning home to an empty flat that he was willing to give Jakes’ ammunition for mockery back at work.

“My place then?” It was the last reply Morse had expected, but he said yes rather too quickly. It wasn’t long before the biting evening chill was seeping through Morse’s jacket, but there was a warmth enclosing him that could either be blamed on the alcohol, or Jakes’ calming presence.

Their footsteps aligned. Morse was finding intimacy in the most mundane of things. Even in the silence that surrounded them, Jakes’ breath forming icy clouds in the air that made him appear to be smoking even though he, for once, had no cigarette at his lips.

“I don’t mind you staying on my sofa tonight, you know, if you can’t face going back to a quiet house,” Jakes offered, nudging Morse with his elbow while keeping his hands buried deep into his pockets to protect them from the chill. The suggestion felt so unnecessarily kind that Morse had to squeeze his eyes shut and take a deep breath before answering to avoid his voice giving too much away.

“I… thank you. Please.”

It turned out that Jakes only lived a few streets over from Morse, in an equally rundown apartment with an equally grouchy landlady. The two men bumped shoulders as they climbed a narrow, sloping staircase to the top-floor flat, their balance shrouded by the beers they had lost count of (that and Morse’s inexplicable yearning to be closer to Jakes, something which must surely also be blamed on the evening’s drinking).

The apartment, though similar in layout to Morse’s own, couldn’t have been more different on the inside. All clean lines and sharp edges, shining furniture with not a piece of clutter in sight (in fact, no sign at all that anybody even lived there, apart from an orderly pile of that week’s newspapers on the coffee table). In truth, it was much like Peter Jakes himself, a man of clean-cut suits and thin cigarettes and gelled hair that could weather a hurricane and not allow a single strand out of place.

Morse was nothing like him. He was tall and skinny, but it edged towards underfed at times rather than slender. All slouching curves and crumples and yesterday’s stubble. Clumsy fingers that didn’t listen to his brain, ribs that stuck out when they shouldn’t. Mess.

“I have Scotch, that alright?”

An answer was hardly necessary. Two glasses were poured without hesitation and soon emptied into parched mouths. Then refilled.

“I… Look, Morse, I hate to keep bringing this up.” (Not _this_ again. Morse huffed and focused his eyes on the ceiling.) “But I want you to know you have people. To talk to, you know? To drink with, because I know how miserable drinking alone is.”

“As if you’d ever have to drink alone.” It was bitter and uncalled for, and Morse wished he could bite back the retort as soon as it left his throat, even more so when Jakes appeared genuinely hurt by it. “I’m… Sorry, carry on.”

“I’ve seen people fall to utter shit over stuff like this.”

It wouldn’t do at all to start crying into his whiskey, especially not in Jakes’ flat. It simply, categorically _could not happen_. Even if maybe Peter wouldn’t mock him for it, even if the man meant what he said. Crying was not an option. He cried when his mother died, of course, and many times since, but there was something about crying with a colleague that was very much off limits.

“Who?”

“My uncle fought, you know, in the war. Dad didn't, he was higher up, government shit, but my uncle was barely an adult, had no choice, did he?” Morse desperately didn't want to know where this was going, didn't want to think about it, but he had spilled enough of his personal problems already, so he owed Jakes this much. He had a feeling it wouldn’t be happening again, so he might as well make it count, make himself useful for once; listen. “He went away right at the start of it all, wanted to do his bit. And he was out there for four years or something.” Peter gulped down the remnants of his whiskey and, if he were a normal person, this would be where he would ruffle a nervous hand through his hair. But no, he was stupid, perfect Peter Jakes, and his hair remained stupidly, perfectly perfect. “I was a kid when he came back, never knew what he was like before, but whatever was left… he was half a man.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He hit me sometimes,” Jakes said with an intake of breath; this was something he generally avoided telling people. “When dad wasn’t in and I was making too much noise in the garden, or the television was too loud… I’d get a slipper to the arse, a slap, or something like that. Army discipline. Never told Dad.”

Morse desperately rummaged through his sparse mental folder of _things to say when your pretty work colleague is spilling his secrets to you and you’re an emotionally stunted idiot_. He was running out of time before Jakes changed the subject, but he desperately wanted to show that he cared. (Why did Jakes need to know that he cared?) “Oh… look I’m- I…that’s shit. God that wasn’t what I meant to say.”

“I know what you mean. Bloody miracle it is, but I know what you mean.”

A burning, prickling sensation rose in Morse’s cheeks when he made eye contact with the other man; the civility of their conversation was alien, and yet it was more than he had had for a long while. He didn’t want it to end.

Something odd fell over Jakes’ face in that moment, something which Morse couldn’t read for the life of him. It was calm and warm and cold and terrifying all at once, and it seemed, _seemed_ to be getting closer.

And, of course, being who he was, Morse froze, panicked, stumbling backwards into the table. Jakes’ empty glass tumbled to the wooden floor in slow-motion, before shattering into hundreds of pieces between the two of them.

“ _Christ_ , Morse, you could have at least broken your own glass. Broom’s in the kitchen, I’ll get it.”

When he glanced back at Peter’s face, any trace of his previous expression was wiped away, replaced with what could only be described as poorly-masked disappointment.

He stood awkwardly by the scattered shards as Jakes swept around him, muttering what sounded like ‘clumsy fucker’ and ‘only bloody had two of those’.

“Sorry.”

“Honestly, don’t worry about it. You can pour yourself another if you don’t plan on spilling Scotch over my rug.”

And so, he did, and he drank it far too quickly. The room’s very aura was almost as intoxicating; it was all going straight to his head. Mere moments later, Jakes appeared next to him on the sofa, which creaked under their combined weight.

“Smoke?” Peter's slim fingers offered a tempting packet before his face, but Morse declined, mumbling excuses about it being a nasty habit. Despite this, when Morse looked over at his colleague (friend, by now, surely?) he felt an urge to taste that smoke on his own tongue.

There was something scandalous in smoking another man's cigarette. In plucking it straight from his lips and watching the gloriously bewildered expression on his face as Morse inhaled its smoke, before replacing it back in its rightful spot. (The taste was less than desirable, but there was a barely noticeable hint of whiskey and cologne that did funny things to Morse's heart) Jakes was rendered utterly lost by this move, sputtering and gaping like a fish wrenched from water. But he said nothing about it (he couldn't). Instead, Morse noted, his face took on an expression of smugness, a faint grin gracing his lips.

“You should smile more,” Morse said (why he did so was beyond him, but it felt necessary) “it suits you.”

What was going on? He had bickered with and been mocked by this man since he had taken up his position in Cowley Station, not once had they had an amicable relationship, in fact, Morse actively disliked him on principle. And, yet, they were slumped against each other, drinking themselves into stupor in Jakes' flat, with their feet resting on the discarded newspapers on his coffee table. And, Morse had the terrifying feeling that he might be _flirting_.

Morse tried not to think about it.

He heard a faint chuckle from Jakes. “I could say the same for you.”

“I _do_ smile,” Morse objected.

“Not when I’m bloody around you don’t.”

Morse felt rather dizzy all of a sudden. “Because you’re a prick at work.” Jakes rolled his eyes, looking almost offended, but eventually shrugging in agreement. How could he be this nonchalant? Suspicious, that’s what this was, but sweet enough amongst the bitterness for Morse to feel obliged to trust it. He was at an utter loss.

When all hope of a real answer had been lost, Morse lurched forwards to clutch at the bottle of whiskey (now significantly emptier than when he had arrived) from the coffee table, clumsily pouring a portion into his glass. He didn’t drink it, though, merely admired the comfortable weight of the glass in his hands, the cold on his skin.

Morse should have expected it, really, that Jakes would return the favour. He took the glass from its precarious position on Morse’s thigh and drew it slowly, teasingly to his mouth, maintaining eye contact as he drank. The air was hot, but not uncomfortably so. He supposed it was rather like a game; testing the waters, to see who would back down first. Or just some case of one-upmanship in which Jakes wanted to take back control. In any case, it resulted in the two of them passing the bottle between each other over the course of the next half hour, drinking directly from it like kids sharing stolen cider in the woods. It was rather odd, because it felt warm and comfortable and _familiar_ despite it being anything but.

And there was a weight pressing into his side, hot and heavy, breathing placidly; it seemed to be huddling closer to him with every passing second. “Jakes?” he forced out, his lips refusing to co-operate with his brain, “are you alright?”

“Mhmm.” And then, after a dense pause, “you’re warm.”

“Am I?”

“Very.”

“I…Thank you?”

“I don’t hate you, you know,” Jakes murmured, his voice thick and slowed by alcohol, and warm in Morse’s ear. “I did at the start, and I _am_ sorry about that, because you’re a good bloke, you know?”

Morse found their proximity to be overwhelming, the way that Jakes was slumped against him, and yet he felt himself leaning in as well, leaving the two of them piled against each other like drunkards in an alleyway. He coughed. “As are you, Jakes. I was just about as bad; I know how annoying I can be. And you are a far better detective than I have ever given you credit for.”

“Ah, the great Morse finally comes to his senses,” Jakes chuckled, lightly elbowing Morse (a sharp reminder of the stab wound festering under his shirt). “Pass the bottle, will you? I think we’ve both had enough, as much as it pains me to say it.”

“Perhaps _you_ have.”

“Come off it, Morse, I had way less glasses when we were in the pub and you know it.”

Morse smirked. “ _Fewer_.” He was met with an incredulous glare, even more incentive for Morse to continue in his taunting. “You had _fewer_ glasses.”

“Yeah, I know what you bloody meant! Unbelievable, that’s what you are.”

This time, when they made eye contact, something in the air was different. It was hotter, emptier, _stiller_ than ever, and there was barely enough of it to breathe. A downwards glance on Jakes part was all it took for Morse to lurch forward and crash their faces together, fumbling to find a pair of lips in the half-light. And oh, when he did, how glorious it was. It was like kissing an ashtray, albeit an extremely pretty one with a tang of whiskey and cheap cologne; on paper, it was a disaster waiting to happen, but that was the last thing on Morse’s mind.

There was no question at this point in the night where Jakes’ interests lay, so Morse did not hesitate to let the other man take the lead once what they were doing had sunk in. His skin was buzzing against Jakes’ smooth hands. It was hardly the most elegant of kisses (not that Morse could claim they were his specialty anyway) but Jakes certainly knew what he was doing, knew his way round a person (a _man_ , however, Morse was still not sure). He clutched desperately at Jakes’ shirt, mind racing, fingers numb, and smirked slightly to himself at the thought of the creases he would leave behind on the cotton. There was even greater pleasure to be taken in dismantling Jakes’ perfectly coiffed hair, despite the greasy feel it left on Morse’s fingers as he did so. He ran his fingers through it roughly before allowing them to settle at the nape of the other man’s neck (it was soft, _kissable_ … later, perhaps).

Where Morse’s movements were clumsy, scrabbling, Jakes were of glaring, desperate _want_ , grabbing and pulling whatever fabric he could find to drag Morse closer to him. His breath was hot as he trailed kisses (bites, more like) along Morse’s jawline, pushing him backwards until they were both nestled amongst sofa cushions, most of which ended up on the floor. Jakes’ hands were on his chest, palms flat, searching, it felt like he was being mapped out.

A sharp jolt of pain in his side caused Morse to inhale sharply, biting down on his lip until he could taste blood. Jakes sat up, confused, until the realisation dawned on him. “Shit,” he breathed, giving Morse some space, “bloody forgot you went and got yourself stabbed. Hold on a sec.”

“There’s no need, I’m fine!” Morse called out as Jakes hurried out of the room. He was most certainly not fine: a patch of blood was blossoming through his shirt (his last clean one, as well) the bandage underneath having clearly become dislodged.

“Like hell you are.” Jakes returned moments later with an old biscuit tin which, upon opening it, revealed an array of first aid equipment. “Shirt off.”

Despite the context, that sentence had a whole different meaning considering what they had just been doing. Morse shuddered, but clumsily unbuttoned his shirt, and shrugged it from his shoulders with a wince as his wound shifted under its dressing. He lifted his vest with one hand and lay back against the arm of the sofa as Jakes examined it. He couldn’t help but feel painfully exposed, not only to the cold room (far colder now that the pain had dragged him from his half-drunken stupor) but to the scrutiny of a man whom he had been kissing mere seconds earlier.

“Have you been cleaning it like DeBryn said?”

“A bit.”

“I’ll take that as a no, then.” Morse ignored his condescending tone, forcing himself to concentrate on the sting of Jakes’ cold fingers on his stomach rather than the agony of the dressing being pulled from his skin, tearing at the yellowing scabs that had begun to form. “This’ll hurt like an absolute bastard.”

Jakes was not wrong; the rubbing alcohol felt like fire on his skin. From what Morse could see, the injury was looking red and inflamed, with no signs of infection yet but, nevertheless, Jakes dabbed the soaked cotton swab delicately over his skin. (Where he had got this sudden dexterity from was a mystery- with the number of drinks he’d had, it was a miracle he could even sit up straight. Of course he had to be bloody perfect at everything.) Morse fought not to tense up every time those fingers brushed against his skin. Jakes was so close, so _unbearably_ close; it was the hardest thing in the world to lie still as his flesh was poked and prodded at by a man with whom he would rather be doing something very different. _So close._ Morse could see every one of Jakes’ features in a way he had neglected to do before. Sharp, pointed, slim. If it were anyone else, they would look half starved, but Jakes’ appearance perfectly complimented his personality. Although, he would probably still benefit from a nice hot meal occasionally, which was rich considering the last time Morse cooked himself a meal from scratch was long before he returned to Oxford.

 _So close_. The silence was thick, palpable, _choking_. Unbearable. “So… you fancy me then?” Morse had always found that, once the issue of initiating something had been overcome, he discovered a strange confidence within himself. It was this power that allowed his voice to maintain an air of control even though his heart was pounding like a drum in his chest, and the goose-bumps on his arms were not only due to the cold of the room.

“God, you really are sergeant’s material, aren’t you?” Jakes stopped what he was doing for a moment to give Morse a well-deserved glare (although Morse suspected it had quite the opposite effect than was the original intention). “And, anyway, it appears I could say the same for you.”

“I suppose so.”

“Ah, yes, you kissed me because you ‘suppose’ you like me, yeah? As if you haven’t been looking at me funny all evening,” Jakes chuckled.

“I haven’t!”

“ _Sure_.”

“If anything, you’re the one who has been acting odd,” Morse retorted, his stubbornness refusing to let him drop the subject. “Earlier, before I smashed the glass.”

“So what? You were the one that lurched away like I’d just pulled a gun at you!” Morse could not argue with that. And, perhaps, he _had_ known. Something at the back of his mind when Jakes approached him in the pub had known that they would end up _here_.

Maybe, it was what he had wanted after all. What he had needed.

Jakes fixed the last side of the bandage down, fingers lingering on skin before reluctantly pulling Morse’s vest back down to cover his stomach. He sat up, tenderly, desperately clawing at the scraps his self-control in a hope that Jakes would not realise how much pain he was in.

After all, they’d only just reached the _good part_.

Morse reached a hand forwards and pulled Jakes down to him, capturing his lips softly. There was a bit of fumbling as Jakes tried to position himself in a way that avoided Morse’s wound, but they soon settled into an almost-cuddle amongst the sofa cushions. The desperate, breathless discordance of their first kiss could not differ more from the languid synchronicity, the balance, of their second. It wasn’t enough, nothing was enough, he wanted _all_ of it. All at once. It thrummed inside him like an engine about to explode into flames. His mouth hung open, weak, letting Jakes kiss all over it as he merely sat back and tried to remember how to breathe. It was hard enough to even remember to _exist_ with Jakes this close.

Morse was absolutely, utterly defenceless.

Somehow, they were standing now (how long had it been?) and Morse tugged needily at Jakes belt loops to steady himself. And, also, because Jakes whined when he did so, which was a magnificent thing to behold. It gave him reminder enough to wrestle a bit of control back, to guide them on a meandering journey around the living room as he tucked himself away against the warmth of Jakes’ body.

An undeniably wobbly pas de deux, mindlessly wrapped in each other, with an unspoken destination at the back of both their minds. If only Morse knew where the _bloody_ bedroom was. He busied himself with Jakes’ tie which, predictably, had barely moved an inch out of place. Stupid, perfect bloody Peter Jakes. It wouldn’t do. Morse fiddled with it thoughtlessly until it fell with a patter at their feet, and suddenly everything was getting rather heated because his fingers were oh so close to Jakes’ shirt buttons, oh _so_ close to his collarbones, his neck, his shoulders. He couldn’t bear to waste time with the stiff fastenings, merely shoving his fingers past the cotton wherever it would allow him to, desperate for the feeling of skin. He needed it more than anything. Although, with the way Jakes was kissing his neck, Morse started to think he may have other priorities. For example, begging his knees not to buckle at the feeling of teeth gently nipping at the skin underneath his ear. _Christ_. He was going to _die_.

Something painfully cold pressed against his calf: metal, a bed frame. It sent chills shuddering throughout his body. There was no kissing anymore; Jakes buried his head into Morse’s neck, breathing shakily, arms around the detective constable’s waist. The absence of Jakes’ lips left an icy pang in their wake.

“Morse, we’re drunk.”

“I’m aware.”

“I can’t sleep with you when you’re drunk.”

Morse whined. “We both are.”

“It’s not right.” It was settled, then; Morse knew as much from Jakes’ tone. That was the end of that. They would go their separate ways and never again utter a word about their drunken lapse in judgement. Morse couldn’t help but laugh to himself at his own foolishness. “But…” Jakes shrugged, his arms still, for some reason, laced around Morse’s waist, “it doesn’t mean you can’t stay here.”

Perhaps Morse had jumped to the wrong conclusion. It had been known to happen.

Jakes dropped heavily onto the mattress, weakly removing his belt but otherwise leaving his work clothes on (albeit in a rather dishevelled state). He didn’t seem to Morse like the kind of person who would sleep in his day clothes but, then again, he also hadn’t seemed like the kind of person who would drunkenly snog a male colleague in the small hours of the morning. “That alright with you?” There was a look of desperate loneliness in Jakes eyes as he patted the mattress next to him, gesturing to Morse that he should sit down.

There were not enough words in the world to say yes, so Morse nodded, and this time did not supress his pained gasp as the wound under his shirt shifted, for this time he had nothing to lose. The ending was set mere moments after they had begun.

But, maybe, here in Jakes’ bed with the glow of moonlight casting an ethereal shimmer over the two of them, and warm arms anchoring him into sleep, the future wasn’t something he needed to worry himself with at all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly can't remember whether this is what I had in mind when I first started writing this fic, but in between starting it and finishing it, I watched both Neverland and Arcadia, so my thoughts are all over the show at the moment. Anyway, these boys deserve happiness and I wanted to give it to them, and I'm very glad I did because this fic has been gradually taking over my sleep schedule and I may actually be able to go to bed at a reasonable time tomorrow. (As a result of my writing most of this at 1am, I would appreciate any grammatical etc. errors being pointed out.)  
> This is only like the third thing I've ever posted on here (I am very slowly working on more) but I'm weirdly proud of it. So I hope y'all like it because Morse deserves a lot more happiness than he gets.  
> x


End file.
